Hermione took a deep breath, wiping at the tears that threatened to spill.
No.
She couldn't fall apart. Not now.
With unsteady hands, she pushed herself up, walked to the wardrobe, and pulled out the first set of robes she could find. They were rich, elegant—a deep emerald green trimmed with silver embroidery. She slipped them on, smoothing out the fine fabric as if it would somehow help ground her.
Then, she turned to the dresser.
The reflection that stared back at her was familiar, yet not.
This was not her face.
She didn't have time to dwell.
Squaring her shoulders, she opened the bedroom door and stepped out, moving through the house with a false confidence she didn't feel.
But there was one problem.
She had no idea where the dining area was.
Hermione's heart pounded as she hesitated in the hallway. If this was anything like Grimmauld Place, then…
She turned sharply, heading for the kitchens.
Please let this be right.
With a deep breath, she pushed the door open—and stilled.
Sirius Black sat at the dining table.
And next to him—a tall woman with the same sharp, aristocratic features.
Hermione's stomach turned cold.
Walburga Black.
Her presence was suffocating, her icy gray eyes filled with disdain the moment she turned to Hermione.
Hermione swallowed and made her way toward the table, taking a seat beside Sirius.
The silence stretched until Walburga let out a soft sneer.
"Did the accident damage your manners too, girl?"
Heat rushed to Hermione's cheeks. She opened her mouth but only managed to stammer, "S-sorry."
Walburga sniffed and turned back to her meal. "We should have chosen a Greengrass, not a Selwyn," she muttered, cutting her food with unnecessary force.
Hermione felt like she had been slapped.
The insult wasn't even aimed at her—not really. It was aimed at Hermia. But it didn't matter. She felt the sting all the same.
The meal was silent.
Then, Sirius stood abruptly. "I have a meeting," he said smoothly, adjusting the cuffs of his robes. "I should get ready."
And just like that, he left.
Walburga followed soon after, neither sparing her a second glance.
Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Her eyes landed on The Daily Prophet folded neatly on the table.
Glancing at the door to make sure she was alone; she snatched it quickly and hurried back to her bedroom.
She tucked it under the bed. She'd read it later.
For now, she needed to figure out where she stood in this strange, terrifying new life.
The sound of running water filled the room as Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, hands gripping the sheets.
She needed information. Answers. A way out.
But before she could collect her thoughts, the bathroom door opened.
Hermione's breath hitched.
Sirius stepped out, steam curling behind him, his skin still damp from the shower.
A towel hung low on his hips, revealing a lean, toned torso—the body of a man who was strong despite his slender frame.
She looked away immediately, blushing furiously.
Merlin, pull yourself together, Hermione.
But… she risked one last glance—
And froze.
There, dark and unmistakable, was the Mark.
A twisted black serpent and skull, inked into his left forearm.
She felt sick.
This wasn't her Sirius.
This Sirius Black was a Death Eater.
Hermione didn't even realize she was staring until his sharp voice cut through the tension.
"Stop gawking, you creep."
Her breath hitched, and her eyes burned.
For the first time, Sirius faltered.
Something about the way she looked at him—not with fear, but with quiet devastation—made him avert his gaze.
He turned away, moving quickly to get dressed.
Without another word, he left the room.
Hermione's hands were shaking.
Slowly, she reached under the bed and pulled out The Daily Prophet.
Her eyes scanned the headline—
And the room began to spin.
MUGGLE-BORN REGISTRATION COMMITTEE ESTABLISHED
No.
She barely made it to the bathroom before she threw up.
She had travelled through time.
She had swapped bodies with a stranger.
And now, she was trapped in a world where the war was already lost.
She sat on the floor near her bed, staring blankly at the moving image of Ministry officials in the paper.
How long she sat there, she didn't know.
Until—a soft pop.
It was gentler than the first.
Binnty had returned.
The little elf placed a tray of potions on the nightstand and hesitated, fidgeting with her hands.
Hermione didn't respond.
Binnty hesitated—then shoved a letter toward her.
"Mistress should write back to Lady Selwyn immediately," she said in a low voice. "Madam Selwyn won't like it if you don't."
Her ears flapped anxiously. As if, once again, she feared she had done something wrong.
And then—she began punishing herself.
"Bad Binnty, Binnty is not fit to serve these nobles—"
Hermione snapped out of her daze.
She reached forward, gripping Binnty's small shoulder. "It's okay," she whispered. "Thank you."
Binnty froze.
The elf's big, round eyes stared at her in shock—before lowering into something almost… soft.
"Mistress is… very kind," she murmured, bowing deeply before disappearing with a pop.
Hermione turned the letter in her hands, feeling dread curl in her stomach.
The elegant script was addressed to Lady Black.
With a deep breath, she opened it.
Hermia,
I heard you got into a bit of an accident yesterday. I hope you are well now. I will visit for tea along with your sister this weekend. Do not forget to take your fertility potions.
— Lady Selwyn
Hermione's fingers trembled.
Her throat tightened as she reread the last line, over and over.
Her stomach twisted painfully.
She wasn't just married to Sirius Black.
She was expected to bear his heir.
Suddenly exhausted, Hermione reached for the tray of potions, swallowing them without thought.
She slid under the covers, staring at the ceiling.
This wasn't a dream.
This wasn't a nightmare.
This was her life now.
And she had no idea how to escape it.